


Semper Fidelis

by Rhearn



Category: Mass Effect (Comics), Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Non-Canon Relationship, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhearn/pseuds/Rhearn
Summary: James Vega is ordered to guard the disgraced Commander Shepard while she awaits disciplinary action on Earth. Having idolised her for years, James is unprepared for the bond they form during their time together under house arrest. He struggles to reconcile his feelings with duty and loyalty when he later serves under Shepard's command on the Normandy. Things are complicated by Kaidan's return and the weight of an old love amidst the Reaper invasion.Begins with the events of Mass Effect: Conviction and references Mass Effect: Paragon Lost. The events of Mass Effect 3 are followed to maintain canon but there is a lot of Shepard/Vega padding and additional Shepard/Alenko drama. Ratings and tags are set for future chapters. I will update these as the fic progresses.





	1. With Conviction

_Like Commander Shepard always said, nothing is ever simple._  
_You think I’m ashamed to show respect for someone who saved billions of lives? I’m proud to follow that example. …I know who my heroes are._

_[Paragon Lost]_

James Vega sat hunched over a grimy table. He raised a stein of batarian ale to his mouth while one eye peered critically at a hand of poker. He focused on the holos glittering dimly on the cards and paid no attention to the low conversation humming through the dingy bar. The place stank of Omega’s slums, namely a putrid blend of mixed-race sickness and red sand. James had slowly adjusted to the smell and the squalor in the weeks since he’d been there. The grog down in the lower levels of Omega was filthy but far more affordable; Aria put a high price on clean liquor. James didn’t give a shit if he was drinking vorcha piss – it did the job. He had established a suitably unhealthy routine of day drinking and gambling, continually dragging his sorry ass from a rented apartment near the docks to find a crowd more to his liking. He’d always preferred undesirables but now more than ever he yearned to rub elbows with the nameless, the reckless and the unfortunate.

The chips piled before him did nothing to improve his foul mood; James scowled at his hand. Another win. Would his luck ever fucking end? While he chewed on his self pity, a voice from a nearby vidscreen cut through his concentration. Someone had left the channel on a galactic news segment: “ _…While the Citadel Council scrambles to denounce the so-called terrorist act allegedly carried out by Commander Shepard, batarian officials are demanding retribution_.”

James looked up from his cards. He felt the muscles in his shoulders bunch with tension. This again.

“ _Councilor Udina has publicly denied that the human Alliance had anything to do with the destruction of the Mass Relay…_ ” 

He jerked to his feet, accidentally knocking the stein to the ground. The players at his table protested loudly at the interruption to their game. James ignored them as he strode between tables toward the screen.

“ _Batarian leaders are calling for Shepard’s head_ –”

James’ intention had been to switch the announcement off, but the faceless threat to Commander Shepard sent a shudder of rage through him. He gripped the screen in both hands and wrenched it from the wall, sending sparks and glass fragments flying in all directions.

The owner gave him an earful from behind the bar. Once of a day, James might have been intimidated by an angry krogan. Not anymore, not after the Blood Pack and the Collectors. He offered his winnings to the krogan and said gruffly, “Keep the extra, as long as I don't have to listen to that bullshit.”

Two batarian players chirped up from their poker table. “You don’t think the batarians deserve payback?”  
“Yeah. You a Shepard-lover, human?”   
Eight eyes narrowed at him, the pair sizing up for a confrontation. James swallowed his anger. He was in his fatigues and it wouldn’t help the Alliance if he started a racially loaded bar fight. “Why don’t we all just sit down and finish our game,” he suggested tersely, stabbing a finger at the pair.  He still gripped the broken vidscreen in one hand, unsure what to do with it.   
“Why don't you go to hell!” the first batarian spat, throwing himself bodily at the marine. 

Common sense fled and the excuse to lash out gripped James by the throat. He brought the screen up as hard as he could manage and heard the alien’s face connect with the plastic with a sickening crunch. The second batarian came at him with a knife; Vega deflected it and spun, lodging the knife back into its owner’s chest. He flung the crumpled screen at the bodies in disgust. A brief silence followed. James turned to observe the room, his chest heaving more from anger than exertion. A dozen batarians rose slowly from their stools. They were between him and the door.

He scanned the room quickly, hoping to locate something within reach that he could use more effectively as a weapon. Nothing. His eyes landed on a nearby batarian standing before a window. They were several storeys up but it would have to do. As the mob surged towards him, James charged a few steps and launched himself at the alien, gripping him around the waist. The momentum carried them easily through the glass, the window rupturing at the force. Jagged shards snagged at his temple as he burst from the building and careened toward the ground. James landed heavily on the batarian, bracing his forearm against the alien’s neck. He felt the body go lifeless beneath him from the impact. Blood pooled slowly around the corpse and James’ boots slid in the mess as he tried to steady himself. He put a hand up to his ribs, winded. He was bleeding from where the window caught his forehead. He ignored it, tugging a thick wedge of glass from his shoulder. 

“GET HIM!”

A slew of batarians hurtled from the building entrance, brandishing bottles and knives. _Shit._ Well, at least out here he had more room to dance. They surrounded him and Vega fought with his fists to the beat of the blood pumping through his veins, lost in the madness thundering through him.

It wasn’t that he hated batarians. He wasn’t the kind of person to hold such prejudices. He had admired Shepard for years and their vendetta against her and humanity was an excuse for him to vent his anger. Deep down, James knew he had come to Omega to seethe and work through his frustration over his decision at Fehl Prime. He had hoped to do this quietly and be left alone, but Shepard’s name was on everybody’s lips.

The public’s swiftly shifting opinion towards Shepard only heightened James’ simmering fury. She’d saved them and died, mourned as a hero lost. When she returned from the dead, half of the galaxy were overjoyed and the other half thought she’d lied to them. Now that she had destroyed the relay, they were quick to label her a terrorist, an extremist. An embarrassment. It was enough to make James’ blood boil. He could handle them talking shit about the Alliance, but not about her. Not after everything she'd done for humans and the galaxy. 

And damn her, she’d cost him every life lost at Fehl Prime. He wanted to hate her for it. He found he only respected her instead. She probably hadn’t even flinched at spending hundreds of thousands of lives to buy the future of the galaxy. Hell, she had bigger _cojones_ than he did.

He reduced a batarian’s face to a bloody pulp with his skull. The last guy fell back, crying in dismay. James didn’t see him, didn’t hear him. He raised his fist with every intention of snuffing out the hideous life cawing pitiably beneath him.

“ENOUGH!”   
The voice rang through Vega like a shot. He turned with his fist still raised and peered through the blood matting his eyelashes. He knew that voice.  
“Lieutenant James Vega, you’re a hard man to find.”  
“Admiral Anderson?” The sight of Anderson wrung the blind fury from James and his adrenaline fled. The admiral was flanked by several Alliance heavyweights. How the hell they’d gotten clearance to come to Omega was beyond him.  
“Dust yourself off and follow me. That’s an order.”  
“Where are we going?” James queried, falling into line. The marine in him was too deeply engrained to do otherwise. He left the fight as abruptly as it had begun, ignoring the last batarian who scuttled away on all fours. James tried to stem the bleeding near his hairline and noticed the sting was only superficial. Less so the injury to his shoulder; blood had run down his arm to drip from his fingertips.

“I’m taking you back for more training.”  
“What the hell for?”  
“It’s time you got over the incident on Fehl. Time for you to be the soldier we expect of you.” He waved James into an Alliance shuttle. James occupied a seat across from Anderson and glared at him sullenly, dropping his hand from his face.  
“No disrespect, sir. But I’d rather not get over it.”  
Anderson leaned forward and furrowed his brow at the lieutenant. “You’re a damned fool if you think I’m gonna let a soldier as good as you piss your life away in this shithole. You’re coming with me to Earth. Now.”

They journeyed up toward the docks. James’ protests fell on deaf ears. He insisted on arguing as they reached their destination and clambered back out of the shuttle.  
“Forget it. There’s nothing for me there.”  
“I’ve got something for you. Something you _haven’t_ had before.” While James puzzled over his words, Anderson led the group round a corner. James was met with the sight of the Normandy SR2 gleaming in the dim light of the Omega skyline.

There she was. Once the jewel of the Alliance navy, the SSV Normandy had been destroyed and rebuilt as the SR2 to be bigger and better than ever. James had fantasised for years about serving a tour on her. Shepard had given the Normandy not only a crew and a purpose, but a reputation. The sight of the Normandy once instilled confidence in the ranks, epitomising Alliance-branded determination and resilience. Now she was a shameful Cerberus vessel still flying the organisation’s colours. It was gut-wrenching to finally look upon the ship of his dreams and know that both she and her captain were disgraced. It didn’t matter to James that the Commander had worked with Cerberus or that the ship had been rebuilt with their funds. He trusted that she had her reasons.

Anderson led James through the airlock and motioned him into the elevator at the back of the CIC, telling him that the Normandy would taxi them back to Earth, no doubt where she would be impounded after the recent ‘terrorist attack’ until she could be refitted and reassigned. James tried to take it all in as he followed, admiring the bridge and wondering sourly who would be the next captain. What had they done with Shepard? He didn’t want to be on this ship if it would be captained by some sour faced, pain in the ass like Mikhailovich; not even for a brief trip to Earth. 

The words burst from his mouth. “Just throw me in the goddamned brig and be done with it.”  
“You’re not far off, Lieutenant,” the admiral warned him, pressing a button on the panel. The elevator ushered them into the belly of the ship and the doors opened to reveal the shuttle bay. 

“…Only, you’ll be _guarding_ the brig. One prisoner in particular.” 

Anderson gestured to a figure hunched over on a pallet. The floor fell out from underneath James’ feet. He knew immediately who he was looking at. She sat with her elbows on her knees, sleeves pushed back to reveal wrists bound with heavy cuffs. She was wearing special forces sweats, all black save for the red stripe running neatly down her right arm and leg. The N7 logo was embroidered high above her right breast. 

“Commander… Shepard?” he tested the name out loud and took a few disbelieving steps towards her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events and dialogue of this chapter are from Mass Effect: Conviction. (I highly recommend checking it out, along with Paragon Lost, if you haven't already done so.) I really wanted to bring the artwork to life and build on its foundations for this fanfiction. Disclaimer: I don't pretend to own the comic, the games or anything Bioware has produced. I just make a mess with the canon after the fact ;)


	2. Voicing Solidarity

James didn’t ask why Shepard had flown the ship into Alliance space and willingly put herself into custody; she was Alliance down to her bones, whether Cerberus had resurrected her or not. What surprised him was that Anderson felt it necessary to have her in Terminus-grade handcuffs and guarded by an armed marine. The young lad stood a few feet away from her, shifting nervously. He knew the Commander could kill him before he had time to raise his rifle, handcuffs or no. 

James had assumed Shepard would be rescued from her predicament by her supporters and the brass. He had never considered her to be genuinely in danger of losing her career and everything she’d ever worked for. And here she was in front of him, out of uniform and in _handcuffs._ The woman in question raised her head, several locks of her long fringe falling away from her face. Vega had seen Shepard dozens of times on broadcast news channels and Alliance circulations, on photos and brochures hailing the first human Spectre. He had even seen what was left unclassified in her file, her enlistment photos sorely dated and supplanted with pictures of her promotion to Commander.

And yet, he had never seen her in person. He was struck by how normal she looked in real life. Her mouse brown hair was tied hastily into a bun at the nape of her neck and a pair of deep, slate blue eyes regarded him warily from beneath thick lashes. She had shockingly pale skin, pebbled with sparse freckles across her mature face and the back of her forearms. The only hint of her reputation as was an angry scar, about two inches long, that pierced through her upper lip. That, and the glint in her eyes as she looked at him. 

Jane Shepard stood to greet them. She was tall and appeared lithe but James could sense there was a deceptive amount of muscle on her frame that lent her a quiet confidence. Her presence was intimidating.   
“I think it’s just Shepard now, Lieutenant…?”  
“Vega.” He tried to quash the disbelief and reverence flooding through him. It was really her. He proffered his hand, remembering a fraction too late that his hands were filthy and she was heavily cuffed.

She didn’t flinch, raising both arms with the chains hanging heavily between, shaking his hand with a sure grip. Her palm was calloused and warm. Somehow, the knowledge that she had rough hands reassured James; this really was the marine he had idolised. He noticed that the backs of her hands and her knuckles were battered and scarred. There was a faint gleam of red beneath the fractured skin in some spots. He wondered what it was from.

“Who won?” she asked, nodding at his injuries.   
“Huh? Oh.” He glanced down at the blood caked in rivulets down his forearm, knowing his face was likewise a mess. “I, uh, had a run in with the locals.”  
She snorted, and her eyes flickered to the admiral standing behind him.  
“Lieutenant Vega will be accompanying us on the final leg to Earth,” Anderson informed her. “I’ll be assigning him to your guard once we arrive. In the meantime, Matthews, you’re to stay vigilant.” The young marine snapped a shaky salute and visibly swallowed. 

“Come on, I need to brief you on your next assignment,” Anderson called him away. James drew himself to attention and saluted the commander neatly in farewell. He knew the situation didn’t call for it; she’d been relieved of duty but James couldn’t help himself. She deserved his respect and he relished showing some small measure of defiance of her treatment before Anderson.  
“Lieutenant,” she nodded in farewell to him. He thought he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her scarred mouth.

Anderson led James back to the elevator and was silent as they made their way to the briefing comm room. A slow anger welled in James’ chest and as the door slid to a close behind them, he let loose.  
“Sir, with all due respect, that’s the first human Spectre you have locked up in the shuttle bay. _Commander Shepard_ deserves better than this!”  
Anderson held up a hand, but Vega was having none of it. 

He had admired Shepard from afar for years; he had defended her countless times since her return from the grave and even more fervently since the destruction of the relay. His old squad used to joke that he stayed up at night jerking over images of the commander, accusing him of having a crush on her. Their teasing didn’t relent even after it was rumoured that she’d died. He was picked on relentlessly, if good-naturedly, for the badge he wore in honour of the original Normandy.

In reality, James saw Shepard as the ultimate marine. Her combat abilities were next to none, she had the right attitude and her leadership qualities had won her a position in the Spectres. She was everything the Alliance and likewise the Council had needed when Saren attacked with the geth. When the galaxy turned its back on the human colonies, she had reappeared as if on queue and reneged to save her own people. That she had spurned her career in the Alliance and ignored the Council to fight the Collectors on her own terms only inspired James. Where others saw a traitorous Cerberus agent, he saw an N7 prepared to do whatever it took, whatever it might cost her, to do the right thing. Only recently had he really begun to appreciate what that meant, how it felt. And now she was in handcuffs on her own ship.

James informed the admiral of his disgust, gesturing forcefully over the table. “—And now you’re taking her to Earth to be court-martialled?!”  
“That’s enough,” Anderson warned, his tone gone flat. “You know less than you think you do about my respect for Shepard. We’ve done what we could to keep the heat off her while she was with Cerberus, but my hands are tied. A mass relay is destroyed and three hundred thousand batarians are dead —”  
“She says it was to keep the Reapers from invading! It’s all over the extranet. Why aren’t we investigating her claims?” Vega cut in angrily.  
“That is an issue well above your paygrade, Lieutenant. We’ve allowed you your time to grieve and come to terms with Fehl Prime, but that time is now over. I won’t have you acting the malcontent. You can idolise Shepard as much as you like; she’s a hell of a soldier, but she’s especially gifted at finding herself in diplomatic nightmares. Mouthing off about it won’t help her. You’re an Alliance marine — act like it.”  
James chewed on his frustration and dropped his heated gaze. “Yes, sir.”

Anderson sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. He suddenly looked much older. “She won’t be court-martialled. The committee knows her service record, and they trust my judgment. We want to see Shepard back in our ranks and on the front line when the time comes. A storm is brewing, Vega, whether the Council will acknowledge it or not. Right now, however, we are on the brink of war with the batarians. Appearances must be kept for the sake of galactic security.”  
“So you’ll let her burn?” James looked up, bracing his weight against the table.  
“Of course not. The defence committee will have a hearing to assess her future, but you know I’ll stand by her as much as I can. In the meantime, she must be watched.”   
“You don’t seriously think she’d go AWOL, sir? Didn’t she surrender herself?” James frowned. Surely they trusted her more than that.  
“Yes, she did. But she’s a spitfire and the last time she was grounded, she stole the Normandy and disappeared through the Mu Relay. Granted, I suggested it at the time, but if she hears a whiff of the Reapers catching us with our pants down, you can bet she’ll act on it — with or without my blessing.”  
"Fair enough."

"Vega, we trust you to ensure she remains in Alliance custody and attends the hearing. If she doesn’t, the Council will backpedal on most of its support for humanity in the face of batarian opposition. It’s messy, but Councilor Udina informs me it’s ‘just politics.’”  
“It sounds like bullshit, sir.”  
“I agree. In reality, Vega, we’re concerned for her safety. We need someone with her 24/7 that we can trust. We know you respect Shepard; she’ll need your loyalty if we’re to keep her in once piece.”  
“I doubt the batarians are capable of storming Alliance HQ on our home planet, sir,” James mused. He’d like to see them try.

“Anything’s possible, but the _real_ threat is Cerberus. She blew up the Collector base, then stole their ship and their most valuable asset - herself. I wouldn’t put it past them to attempt to retrieve her.”  
Vega rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”  
“You’ve proven yourself capable, Lieutenant. Consider this training; you’ll have several months leading up to the hearing. You’ll be with her at all times.”  
“Several _months_ , sir?”  
“Bureaucracy is a slow machine. Once this mess is cleaned up, we will have time to review your next posting. ”  
James nodded numbly. The brass really thought he was the best man for the job? He didn’t buy it.

An amused expression crossed over Anderson’s face. “You don’t look pleased, Vega. I know you don’t care for guard duty. Shepard may not like to admit it, but she needs someone. I’d have thought you would jump at the chance to spend so much one on one time with the commander. I’m sure she can teach you a thing or two.” He left the room chucking to himself, clapping Vega on his uninjured shoulder on the way out.

James let out a heavy breath. This had to be some sort of joke. He didn’t begrudge the opportunity to learn from Shepard; he was even strangely pleased that Hackett and Anderson considered him competent enough to keep her safe. Nonetheless, this felt like a sort of punishment. He wasn’t stupid; they could have stationed twenty marines around her at all times but chose to have him under house arrest with her instead. This was because of Fehl. They wanted him to learn how to come to terms with his decision by being around Shepard; she’d killed a lot more people for stakes that were far higher. It was bullshit. He wondered what they hell they expected him to do if she tried to escape his care. 

_Well, it’d be a decent way to go — killed by the commander with her bare hands. Mason and Essex would have a field day if they knew. If they were still alive._

James grimaced at the thought. Maybe the brass were right. He needed to move on.

+++

Shepard watched Anderson and Vega as they retreated. The bloodied marine had saluted her, his arm straight and his eyes locked forward. No wavering, no embarrassed eyes darting to meet hers in a silent apology. Not like the other marines brought on board, all of whom remembered a fraction too late that she was relieved of her duties and was probably on the verge of being discharged. Vega’s salute had been intentional, an honest and sincere gesture. He believed in her. She could see it in the set of his jaw. So she still had support in the Alliance. Not much, but maybe it was enough to save her hide. She’d almost grinned at him, grateful for his show of solidarity.

Shepard looked up at the sound of the elevator doors opening. Anderson returned, alone this time. Matthews shifted to attention as he approached. The admiral looked down at her, not unkindly. He was impeccably attired - pressed, starched and clean shaven. It was a wonder that Anderson had placed so much trust in her, from her report about the beacon on Eden Prime, to her temporary work with Cerberus, and now his steadfast trust in her claims about the relay. It broke her heart to think she might one day drag him and his career down with her.

“So, Vega?” Shepard prompted. Anderson hitched up his pant legs and sat awkwardly beside her on the pallet.  
“What about him?”  
“This isn’t a zoo, Admiral. You haven’t brought anyone else down here; the only other people I’ve seen are my guards, you and Joker.”

She remembered Joker’s visit fondly. He’d hobbled all the way down to the shuttle bay to bluster and swear over their treatment, saying that his stand-in couldn’t fly a Kowloon class freighter and had no business at the helm of ‘his’ ship. They’d shared a pilfered bottle of Chakwas’ brandy and rolled around in Shepard’s makeshift quarters, laughing good-naturedly about EDI’s demotion to VI. The guards had known better than to try and intervene, and graciously left them to it. They weren’t breaking regs if they had been relieved, after all. Shepard assumed Joker was hiding away now until they reached Earth, watching questionable extranet videos in his bunk. He wasn't under arrest, as she was. She was glad of it; he didn’t deserve to face the committee. She suspected he was too talented to be under fire for long, anyway.

“He needed to see you.” Anderson brought her back to the present. The cryptic statement was followed by a long sigh, but he didn’t explain any further.   
“What did he do?”  
“Hm?”  
“I assume he’s in some sort of trouble for being given babysitting duties.”  
“Never mind all that,” Anderson stood, deflecting her line of questioning. “Get some rest, Shepard. We’ve got a long fight ahead.”  
She wasn’t sure if he meant the hearing or the Reapers.

 


	3. Safe Harbour

Earth was hotter than Vega remembered. The sun glanced dizzyingly off the crisp waters of the bay as they flew from the spaceport and threaded through the buildings of Vancouver’s government district. Vega’s shirt stuck to his back as they clambered out of the stuffy shuttle a short while later. He rolled his shoulders once free of the doors and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, glad to be planetside again. 

Anderson led them up a series of stone steps and into the cool shade of Alliance Headquarters. They navigated through the wing nearest the courts and took an elevator to the uppermost level of the detention centre. James knew these were the residences that temporarily housed Navy officials and senior staff brought in for disciplinary hearings. It was still the brig, but far more dignified. It grew quieter the further they travelled; most of the apartments appeared to be empty. Their footsteps echoed off the white walls until they came to the last door of a long hallway.

“This is where you will spend the next few months. Only you and Shepard will be able to unlock this door outside of my immediate staff,” Anderson announced soberly and brought up his omni-tool. He assigned Vega and Shepard to the security access and waved them in. Vega moved inside after Shepard and immediately realised with some relief that it was not a single room, but rather a series of rooms. Of course. The higher-ups would expect an entire suite during their stay. It was military and clinical in its design and decor. The surfaces were stylised steel and plastic, the furniture was stark and the occasional pot plant stood stoically green, not a coloured branch or flower in sight.

“Your names will be kept from the official logs for added security. You are _not_ to leave these rooms unaccompanied,” he warned Shepard, relieving her of her handcuffs. To Vega, he said: “And _you_ are not to leave your post. Everything will be provided for. If you have any reason to leave these rooms, you must call my men for an escort.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
The admiral nodded at them, looked briefly around as if to make sure no batarians were hiding behind the furniture, and made his way back to the door. He turned and stared down the commander.  
“Shepard. I mean it. Do this as a favour to me,” he implored.   
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her back straight and her head held high. The door slid closed. James watched it click into place, the panels emblazoned with the Alliance logo in cornflower blue. The lock leaped into view, glowing a deep crimson. He opened his mouth and turned to say something to Shepard, only to realise she was no longer in the room. _Nice work, Lieutenant._ Three seconds in and he’d already lost her.

The apartment entryway led into a large space serving as a kitchen, dining and living area. Two sofas and a coffee table shared the northern wall with a dining table and several bookshelves. The southern end consisted of a well-stocked kitchen fronted by a standalone island. _Good cover in case of a firefight_. James headed left and passed into a small hallway that was flanked by three doors. One was a deep closet stocked with linen, first aid supplies and cleaning equipment. 

Another led into a vast, open space. Anderson had set it up for them as a gym. There were several machines for strength training, two treadmills, a punching bag, a bench press and a rack of weights. There was also a long workbench erected at waist height against the far wall. To James’ surprise, someone had brought their personal armour sets and placed them neatly alongside maintenance kits. _Just in case,_ he recognised. His own familiar Defender set was dented and scraped, boasting its durability as it shone dully in the light. Next to his was an immaculate set of elite special forces armour, much smaller in stature. The material was of incredible quality. The ablative ceramic plates were a dusky grey and the kinetic padding was deepest black. The right shoulder guard and gauntlet were marked by a stripe in the colour of blood, bordered by white. The paint gleamed menacingly under the lights. An N7 logo glinted at him from the chestplate, sitting just above the smooth breast guards. Not a scratch on them. 

Shepard hadn’t been allowed to keep her armour from her time with Cerberus, that much James knew. This armour had yet to see any combat. It could be a good sign — the Alliance had clearly funded a brand new set for her. Either the hearing was a sham and she’d be back in the field in no time or, more likely, Anderson had pulled some strings with the brass. The man had absolutely no faith that Shepard wouldn’t attract trouble by living quietly by the water for several months. Nonetheless, she was barred from using any weapons during her arrest. James was permitted his pistol and a couple of thermal clips as a show of protecting her but nothing more.

James continued the tour and discovered that the third room in the hallway was a windowless bedroom. Shepard wasn’t in there. He retreated back into the living space and explored the other end of the apartment. There was a door just past the kitchen; it slid open to reveal a generously sized bathroom. There was only one room left. Shepard had claimed it by dropping her duffle bag onto the large king bed. There was a full window overlooking the the city, the glass tinted and reinforced. A nearly inaudible hum bespoke kinetic barriers. It was a continuation of the window running the length of the living room on the other side of the wall.

The commander stood with her back to him, legs apart, arms crossed. She seemed to be glaring at the view. He imagined these were unimpressive quarters compared to the cabin on the Normandy. For James, it was several notches above what he was used to.  
“Er… Commander?” James didn’t know what to say to her. They hadn’t spoken since that first day he was brought onto the Normandy. In fact, James had spent most of the journey trying to stay out of everyone’s way on the crowded ship. He had been given no assignment and no duties, so he’d stayed in his bunk or in the mess.

Shepard sighed and turned to him. “What’s your name, Lieutenant?”  
Had she forgotten? “Vega.”  
“I know that. I meant your first name.”  
“Oh, uh, James, ma’am.”  
“James.” She nodded at the name as if in approval. “I don’t know why they’ve forced this assignment on you, but let’s get something straight. I made my choice in the Bahak system. It was that, or let the Reapers kill us all in our sleep. I did what I had to do and I’ll tell the committee as much. You don’t need to be concerned about me sneaking off in the night.”  
“Yes, Commander.” He didn’t know what else to say. She had done away with his rank and spoke to him in an odd combination of informal superiority, as though she was used to giving commands to those who weren’t technically under her authority. It suited her.  
“You’re not supposed to call me that anymore, James.”  
“I’m not supposed to salute you anymore, either,” he replied. James looked her dead in the eye and saluted formally before turning on his heel and leaving her to unpack.

+++

That first night, James found he couldn’t sleep. He lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The bed was generously sized and far softer than he was accustomed to. The lamp on his nightstand cast a cozy glow around the room; the holoclock twinkled dimly at 12:48am. He was restless.

The bookshelf in the room had some pre-loaded datapads and printed Council-approved digests. None of it interested James. He had arranged the few personal items he owned on shelves instead, namely an expensive analogue watch, a pair of earbuds linked to his omni-tool, some vintage comic books and a small, battered ammo tin. The tin contained some sentimental trinkets. There were holos of happier times, mostly of Delta squad and his buddies on Fehl. There was even one of April perched on his shoulders. He kept his old shoulder patch from his early career as a private in there, along with the Forever Normandy badge and his first ever service knife. The blade was snapped off an inch from the hilt. He’d always been better with a physical weapon in his grip than the omni-blade, which required a different kind of finesse from the wrist. He’d fought hand to hand with a turian with that knife. If the blade hadn’t embedded itself in the turian’s jaw mandible, he might not have come out of the scuffle alive.

His toiletries and electric razor were stowed in the shared bathroom. Fortunately, Anderson had seen fit to have his apartment on Omega raided by his staff. They’d stuffed Vega’s clothes and belongings into an Alliance duffle before finding him in the slums. James was glad he didn’t have to replace his basic supplies or his civvies. His favourite leather jacket was hung in the cupboard above his folded fatigues.

James sighed, shifting on the bed. Reality had finally set in as the night deepened and it occurred to him that the situation was utterly absurd. He used to fall asleep fantasising about being one of Shepard’s top operatives; used to daydream in the field that she was commanding him and leading his squad. None of it was sexual or romantic. He dreamed of being half the marine she was. Vega used to talk about the Normandy and her crew the way others spoke of their favourite celebrities: as though the object of their obsession was unknowable, untouchable.

Now, in an inexplicable series of events, she was living down the hall from him in their cozy apartment for two. It was unimaginably strange. The things he could learn from her, the questions he burned to ask her! And yet, he had no idea what to actually _say_ to her. The woman had gone further in her career than he was ever likely to, and with that experience came the burden of having seen some truly horrific shit. What was he supposed to say to someone who had been declared dead for two years? To someone who had led a team beyond the Omega-4 Relay, who handled geth like any other enemy, who —? This was beyond insane. He had idolised a symbol, a leader, a marine. But she was just a human. Cybernetically enhanced and Spectre though she was, James tried to appreciate that she was just a woman with a lot of scars. He didn’t really know how to separate Jane Shepard from Commander Shepard. 

They’d shared a silent dinner earlier in the evening. James had found some frozen dinners and heated one for her, not trusting his nerves enough yet to cook. Shepard thanked him quietly and retreated to the couch to eat, before disappearing to her room for the remainder of the night. He didn’t know if he was supposed to check in on her. He agonised over the decision for awhile and eventually decided against knocking on her door to make sure she hadn’t gotten herself killed in the few hours they spent apart.

What did they expect from him, anyway? ‘Guard Commander Shepard’ was one of the most ambiguous assignments he’d ever been given. He had received the official briefing email that afternoon. The length of his posting was indefinite until Shepard’s hearing — they estimated six to nine months. The parameters were vague: protect the personnel in his care from all hostile intent, use of force authorised, permitted limited arms, residency within detention centre mandatory. No real orders, no mission details. Was he supposed to keep a picket? Impossible to do that through the night and then guard her during the day. He wasn’t going to have any help — this was a one-man job. So if Anderson didn’t expect him to physically guard her throughout the night or watch the perimeter of their rooms… what was he supposed to actually do? Just live here with her until further notice? It didn’t seem right, somehow.

James glanced over at his holoclock. 12:54am. He sighed and swung his legs over the bed, retrieving his pistol from the nightstand. He wore only a pair of sweatpants as he padded into the kitchen. It was summer, and the planet wasn’t getting any cooler. The apartment had ducted climate control but Shepard hadn’t switched it on and James wasn’t used to artificially cooled air. He preferred the humidity. It reminded him of home. 

Vancouver twinkled in the distance through the window, bathing the kitchen in enough light for him to see in the dark. Faint glows and glitters of light bounced off the steel appliances, reflected from the buildings and the occasional distant skycar. All was quiet. It was oddly peaceful.  James hadn’t felt his guard come down this much since the quiet two years spent on Fehl before the Collector attack. It was nice to feel as though he had berthed in a safe harbour again, at least for a short time. He retrieved a glass and filled it at the sink, sipping the water slowly and puzzling over his situation. 

He glanced past the living room and down the opposite hallway. He could see her door from here. He wondered if she was asleep, wondered if she _could_ sleep. God knows he still struggled. Sleep used to come easy to him, before Fehl. Now, he heard April’s voice calling for him, crying for him, accusing him. The only way he slept peacefully now was if he physically exerted himself into exhaustion or drank himself into oblivion. He shook his head at himself, dumped the contents of his glass down the sink and retreated to his bedroom. Nowhere was safe. Not for someone like him. 


	4. Death and Rebirth

_“Mayday, mayday, mayday!”_

Shepard opened her eyes. She was standing on the bridge of the Normandy. The roof above her head was gone, gaping wide to embrace the cold vacuum of space. The bridge was dark, hardly any lights flickering on the ruined terminals. A voice crackled through her comms — it was Joker, uncharacteristically frantic. Everything else was cloaked in terrible silence.

_“This is SSV Normandy, we’ve suffered heavy damage from an unknown enemy.”_

Shepard began to move at an agonisingly slow pace towards the cockpit, knowing that she had to get Joker out of there. The bones of her ship were twisted in odd, broken angles around her. Chairs floated eerily off the floor in zero gravity and twirled lazily as she brushed past. Her breathing was loud and unsteady, the noise amplified by her helmet. She hated coming back to this place. After an eternity, she reached the pilot seat. With some convincing, she managed to wrestle Joker into an escape pod.

“Commander!”

Joker’s voice was nearly drowned out by the harrowing sound of an energy beam. The Collectors weren’t satisfied with the Normandy limping to safety. Shepard turned to see her ship snapping in the wake of mass weapon fire. Broken bulkheads peeled away from the main fuselage and spun endlessly away in space. The following blast knocked Shepard off her feet and she lifted off the floor, weightless. Her scrabbling fingers found purchase on a broken console and she clung to it, looking in dismay over the distance now stretching between her and the last escape pod. She wouldn’t make it. She never did.

Joker’s eyes were ringed with white, disbelief distorting his face. It was strange to behold. Joker was seldom serious. He cried out, one hand reaching uselessly for her.  _“Shepard!!_ ”

Another beam sliced through the crumpled skeleton of the Normandy and set off chain explosions across the bridge. The force tore the ship from Shepard’s fingers and flung her body backwards towards the splintered CIC. Joker’s pod ejected and jettisoned away to safety. 

Shepard drifted uncontrollably away from the wreckage. She viewed the complete destruction of the Normandy with disembodied shock, the scene unfolding before her in scarlet streaks and bursts of orange. She realised she was gasping; it was noticeably harder to breathe. A quiet whistle of air escaping from her suit’s exoskeleton was fed to her through her helmet’s auditory emulators. Her oxygen supply would be depleted within minutes. She would be dead long before the remains of her ship entered the atmosphere of Alchera.

She tried to seal the tear with her hands, her fingers — but she couldn’t reach. Fear and desperation crawled suddenly up the back of her throat and threatened to overwhelm her. Death had never frightened her on the field, but it frightened her now. The Collectors were coming. The Reapers couldn’t be far behind. She needed to be there when the time came, but it didn’t matter. She knew how this ended. Her death would be the catalyst for humanity’s survival in the coming years. She would need Cerberus as much as they needed her. She would fight for them and win a future for her kind despite the Council’s obstinacy and the short reach of the Alliance. She would do what she had to. It all began with her death. All she had to do was let go.

A warning flared across her HUD. Shields disabled. Oxygen levels critical. Her vision swam and darkened and she remembered travelling to Ilos, recalled teetering on the edge of discovery. She had lain in the lieutenant’s arms for the first time that endless night in the stars. Shepard had been so young then, shielded by ignorance and false hope. She had trusted the galactic community to recognise the dangers before them. She had placed her faith in the system despite the Council’s nearsightedness. She had been too naïve.

Shepard’s struggles ceased, her hands coming to a rest. Her last thought as she dwindled away was that soon she would be reborn. Miranda would win her ashen body and rebuild Shepard with cold, clever hands. _The Lazarus Project will proceed as planned._

Shepard’s consciousness slipped as she journeyed into oblivion. The slow suffocation was excruciating and eventually, it wrung the life from her. She was engulfed in cold, black eternity.

**+++**

Shepard’s knees hit the cool floor. Her legs were tangled in a blanket — Alliance issue, crisp white with blue trim. Her chest heaved as her lungs worked like a bellows, the skin beaded with sweat. It took Shepard a moment to register her surroundings from the floor beside her bed. She was in Vancouver. 

 _It was just a dream_ , she tried to reassure herself, but she knew her dreams were laced with distressing memories. The attack had occurred over two years ago and here she was, breathing again. Tears ran unchecked down pallid cheeks. She’d writhed around in her bed and, in an attempt to escape her nightmare, had apparently flung herself off the side of the mattress. She rose shakily, staggered to the bathroom and vomited noisily into the sink. There weren’t many things that shook Commander Shepard; reliving her own death was one of the few exceptions. She rinsed her mouth and looked up into the mirror, patting her clammy face with a towel. Grey-blue eyes stared back at her, underlined with dark shadows. 

She could almost fool herself into thinking that she hadn’t changed, save for the night terrors and new scars to replace the old. The face looking back at her was styled in almost perfect mimicry of the woman she had been. Cerberus had engineered new skin with an exact pigment to match her old face. It was a shame that the effect could not be perfected by replicating scarring. She looked younger, somehow. Smoother. Gone were the familiar, subtle gouge marks near her hairline, caused by a sloppy frag grenade when she was a new recruit. Gone, too, was the tiny mole that used to sit below her right eye socket. An angry cleft hugged her upper lip now instead, courtesy of a Collector rifle on Horizon. 

Her eyes strayed downward to the hands clutching at the basin. One or two knuckles showed a faint red glow beneath cracked skin. There were larger seams across her ribs, her back and her thighs, hidden beneath her clothes. Shepard knew her cybernetic implants were Cerberus prototypes, far beyond anything available on the galactic market. They were more advanced, Miranda had boasted, and created in defiance of standard Council medical practices. They had to be. Shepard was no longer wholly organic in a literal sense - vital parts of her system were irrevocably destroyed by exposure and cellular degeneration.

The nightmares were new, too. Her fears and doubts now manifested as dreams in the dead of night, a phenomenon that began after waking on the Lazarus operating table. Some of her dreams were of Ilos, others of Eden Prime; sometimes she remembered Saren and other times, Ash. Shepard dreamed of the destruction of the Normandy most often, including her asphyxiation in space. The nightmares had gradually eased as she threw herself into her mission against the Collectors, deferring to a dead sleep won by exhaustion and frequent injuries. Now that her mission was over and she had nothing to dedicate her attention to, a deep unease pervaded both her waking and sleeping hours. Why hadn’t her crew reached out? Would Kaidan really desert her? Who was she, now? _What_ was she? And why did she have to remember the life being squeezed from her chest— 

Shepard was jolted out of her disquiet by the sound of the bathroom door sliding open and someone moving behind her. Vestiges of her dream still lingering, Shepard felt a shudder of dread creep up her spine. She’d removed her omni-tool before going to bed, and she berated herself inwardly for it. The brass believed her blade to be disabled, but she hadn’t made friends with Kasumi without learning a few tricks. She felt vulnerable without it. Logic fled and she lashed out, turning with a fight at the end of her fists. 

Her eyes registered a second too late that it was Lieutenant Vega standing behind her. Of course. He was the only other person there. Was she really so disturbed that she saw enemies everywhere?

Her knee-jerk attack was regrettable, but useless - Vega’s reaction was instantaneous. Drilled in by years of training, he blocked her wrist with his forearm but returned no parry. Satisfied she wouldn’t try to hit him again, he shrugged at her and cleared his throat. “Uh.. you okay, Commander? I heard a noise and saw you run from your room. I tried knocking but…”

Shepard had the grace to be embarrassed. She hadn’t let one of her dreams affect her this much in a long time. She put it down to being in new surroundings and feeling exposed, out of the safety of her cabin and separated from her crew. “Sorry, James. I’m… okay.” She dabbed her face with the towel and tried her best to look normal.

“Uh huh,” he replied in a sarcastic monotone, clearly unconvinced she was telling the truth. He turned and left her to it, knowing she wasn’t in any immediate danger.

Shepard suddenly wished to be anything but asleep. She emerged from the bathroom and changed into new clothes. She picked her sheets off the floor and glanced at the clock resting on her bedside table. Almost dawn. Her eyes fell upon the photo of Kaidan Alenko perched nearby. Once, that frame had adorned her cabin desk near her medals – a reassuring smile, a source of comfort. Now, his face reminded her of everything she’d lost, everything she’d seen since her resurrection. She remembered his bitter words to her on Horizon, a stark reminder that their days of love on the SR1 were long behind them. Shepard grabbed her omni-tool and let the door seal firmly behind her.

She padded into the living area and peered curiously into the kitchen, her grave thoughts falling away in amusement. Vega had put on some rock music and was humming away, cooking eggs. His back was to her, attending the frypan with apparent skill. He was shirtless despite the hour, a kitchen towel thrown over one shoulder. His grey sweatpants had the Alliance logo down the left side, the fabric sagging around his ass. Shepard looked at him with new appreciation. This marine took his assignment seriously enough to barge in on her in the bathroom, heedless of any need for privacy. His pistol was within arm’s reach next to the stovetop: an M-6 Carnifex. The man had good taste; more importantly, he was evidently good at his job. Alliance requisitions rarely doled out weapons popular among mercenaries. He was special forces, then, and obviously on Anderson’s radar. Interesting. He must be one hell of a soldier to be trusted with her safety, but had clearly had some sort of run-in with the brass to be taken out of the field for upwards of six months. She couldn’t tell if he was assigned to her as a form of disciplinary action or rehabilitation. The latter certainly seemed like something Anderson and Hackett would do.

Her eyes took in his frame. James was solid, heavily muscled but clearly well balanced on his feet. He was a bulldog. She knew just by looking at him how she’d use him in the field – he was a tank, built to dig his heels in against damage and return heavy fire. Anderson had left her in strong and capable hands, of that she had no doubt. She wasn’t egotistical enough to begrudge being assigned a guard. A fight was always easier with a reliable ally on your side and Shepard knew enough of her enemies to appreciate having another pair of eyes watching her back. She did wonder about his age, though. Vega looked a few years younger than her. His dossier must be impressive but she was barred from Alliance records pending the outcome of her hearing. She wondered at the Lieutenant’s tattoos, too: an interesting thatch design running down his neck, shoulder and right arm, and six strokes on his back. James mumbled part of the song to himself, turning with the pan in his hand and lumping scrambled eggs onto two plates. She noticed there were small tattoos on his pecs in symmetrical thatch strokes, similar to the rest.

James had neither flinched nor looked surprised at her presence. Definitely spec ops. “Coffee?” he asked her.  
“Please,” she replied simply, sliding into one of the stools tucked under the island. He made no mention of her vomiting loudly in their shared bathroom not half an hour earlier, or the fact she had tried to deck him. Vega slid a plate of eggs and bacon across the bench, poured two cups of black coffee, plonked a bottle of milk in front of her with a wordless ‘I don’t know how you take it’ shrug and ripped open a massive carton of orange juice.  
“Anderson bought all this?” Shepard asked, nodding at their hearty fare.  
“There was a box of groceries out the front door, yeah,” he replied, downing an entire glass of juice before tucking into his pile of bacon.  
“Did you scan it?” Shepard asked around a mouthful of eggs.  
“Nah. Figured I’d let the batarians sneak bioweapons in with the bread.”  
Shepard stared at him, fork hovering in the air. James stared innocently back, sipping at his coffee.

She snorted suddenly, sitting back in her stool, and was surprised to hear herself laugh. “So you’re a smart-ass as well as a good cook.”  
“Yes ma’am.”  
Shepard shook her head and started on her breakfast. This was their first real conversation since arriving and if she was honest, she liked that he didn’t take her all that seriously.   
“Oh I almost forgot. There was this, too,” Vega announced suddenly, bending out of sight and emerging with a battered cardboard box in his hands. The packing tape was faded, an Alliance sticker yellowed and peeling from one side. The N7 logo was stamped upside down and, in her own unapologetic handwriting, the name ‘J. SHEPARD’ was scrawled in permanent marker across the top.

The food turned to ashes in Shepard’s mouth.

 


	5. Personal Effects

Seconds ticked by.

“Commander?”

Shepard didn’t hear him. She stared, transfixed by the box sitting innocently on the counter. It held remnants of an old life - tools, broken mods and unfinished projects from years ago. There were a number of heartbreaking trinkets that Shepard had collected in an attempt to forge a life for herself: dusty souvenirs, gifts, disused badges, and a few holos of friends and crewmates from postings long forgotten. Anderson must have kept her things after her death, unwilling to let go of her memory. Sentimental bastard. It was likely that he thought returning them to her was a kindness. It was not.  
  
A memory surfaced suddenly, uncomfortable and unbidden. 

 _“Hey, Jane!”_  
_Shepard turned to the call and grinned to see her friend and fellow recruit jostling through the crowd with an armful of gear. He was struggling to catch up to her, a duffle bumping against his back. Shepard stopped against the tide of marines bustling through the hallway of the barracks._  
_“Where are you bunked, Sammy?” she asked over the noise, wrestling a pile of clothes out of his arms to help him._  
_“Down the hall, I think. Rack 44.”_  
_“Not far then. Come on.” They traded banter as they traversed the corridor, laden with Sam’s gear. An officer approached them and they stopped, saluting awkwardly and balancing their burdens._  
_“Shepard, nice work in basic. We’re looking forward to seeing what you can do on your first posting. Enjoy settling in. Turner.” The young woman nodded at Shepard and her friend before continuing toward her destination._

 _“Shepard,” Sam repeated, testing the name. “I’m still not used to people calling you that.”_  
_She smirked at him as they continued on their way. “You’re the only person that’s called me Jane since enlistment, you know. Fall in line, private!”  
_ _“Fuck off,” he replied with a laugh, elbowing her. They soon arrived at the right room and navigated past rows of bunks and men in various states of undress. Recruits were unpacking and yelling boisterously at one another, high off the excitement. Sam found bed 44 and Shepard dumped his new uniform on the mattress in an unceremonious pile._

 _“Thanks,” he said, and dropped the bag down with a groan. “You’re already set up?”_  
_“Yeah, our bunks are closer to the mess.”_  
_“Lucky.” Sam had opened his duffle and was pulling stuff out._  
_“What’s this?” Shepard asked, lifting a holo from the bottom of his bag._  
_“That’s the photo we took at the end of basic!” Sam was incredulous. “You didn’t get a copy?”_  
_“No. I haven’t seen it…” Shepard trailed off, peering curiously at the image. Her training group were pictured together in a field. They were exhausted and battered but posing proudly, some grasping rifles and others showing off with their omni-blades. Sam, ever the class clown, was splayed on the ground in front of everyone else in a lewd position. Shepard was behind him in line with the rest, grinning despite the bandage wound round her forehead._

 _“You can have it if you want,” Sam said quietly, watching her. He was the only person Shepard had willingly opened up to about her past on Mindoir. He knew she had no family, no life outside of the Alliance. Shepard couldn’t formulate a response, choked suddenly with tears. This group meant the world to her; it was the first time she had formed bonds with other people after the colony attack and the first time she had felt truly free since losing everything but her life. She looked up at Sam, wordlessly grateful._  
_“You’re welcome, Shepard.” Sam’s hazel eyes glittered with mirth._ _She laughed suddenly and blinked away her tears, punching him on the arm.  
“It’s just Jane to you.”_

Shepard’s mouth had gone dry. Her memories were slow to return after the Lazarus reconstruction; those she had regained were of relatively recent events. She had lost virtually all memories from decades ago, recalling only fuzzy instances of names, dates and places thankfully devoid of detail. Even Mindoir was a dulled and distant ache. Shepard was stunned and numb to be flooded with a recollection so sharp and clear from so long ago. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen when she finished basic training. And Sam… Sandy haired and fresh faced, the young marine had been her first love, their fumbling affections short-lived and buried by the realities of military life. Shepard hadn’t thought of him in years, even when her memories were still intact. She didn’t want to remember his name, his face, the lilt of his accent or his clever fingers. She didn’t want to remember anything of her past life. The box held nothing for her now except pain.

Vega shrugged, mistaking her silence for nonchalance. He chewed casually on a piece of toast and flipped open the box out of innocent curiosity. Shepard gaped at him in alarm, stricken and unable to move. James peeked in briefly and stopped in dismay. He closed the cardboard flaps, realising a little too late what he was looking at and what it must mean to her. “Want me to keep it somewhere safe?” he asked quietly, not looking her in the eye. Shepard tried to swallow her unease.

“No.” She shook her head, grateful he understood but feeling suddenly and strangely exposed. Nobody on the Normandy had known her prior to her posting in Anderson’s team, before their mission on Eden Prime. None of the original crew had really known Jane; even Kaidan had used her surname when he addressed her, whispered it in her ear when he made love to her. The woman with a past, with old friends and old loves, the woman who had a box of things in Alliance storage — she had died in space and everyone who had known her had moved on years ago. The contents belonged to a dead woman. She wasn’t Jane anymore.

“Get rid of it.” Shepard pushed off her stool and headed back to her room, not waiting to see her former life tossed into the trash.

+++

The following weeks were a strange adjustment for James. Neither he nor Shepard spoke of the box incident. Instead, they carved a routine for themselves out of the long, quiet days. James found that he returned to Alliance discipline after his debauched stint on Omega with relative ease – for the first half of the day, at any rate. He rose at dawn, spent an hour or two in the gym and cooked a breakfast for them both usually long before Shepard had risen. 

He would leave an assortment of food and fresh coffee in his wake before showering and returning to exercise. Shepard joined him in the gym mid-morning. A restless soldier was a dangerous soldier, so the two worked doggedly at maintaining their fitness. They spoke little, sweating together almost wordlessly for hours at a time. Sometimes, James stood in the back of the room at the workbench instead, laboriously fixing up his Defender armour with the maintenance kits Anderson had left for them. His gear wasn’t busted, but buffing out the scrapes and strengthening the clips were tasks well suited to killing time.

Aside from any real desire to pass the time, James had a vested interest in watching the commander from the corner of his eye. Shepard occasionally requested that he spot her on the bench; other days she put in headphones and hit the machines alone. More often than not, she ran on the treadmill as if her enemies were at her heels. Her strength and fitness levels were exceptional – he expected no less of her, given her reputation. He marvelled at her as he began to grow accustomed to her workout routines, impressed that she lived up to many of his ideals. She wasn’t the strongest female marine he’d ever met, but she was close. 

James had a keen eye for this sort of thing, however. Shepard was a wounded animal. She alternated between punishing herself and holding back timidly far beneath what he began to understand she was capable of. And when she worked herself to exhaustion, she held herself as though she was afraid of breaking something. It had not escaped his notice that she chose to wear long pants and thick shirts around him, too. Surely the commander wasn’t body shy? N7 training demanded nudity in more than one situation to force resilience and fearlessness. James gradually observed that there was no particular activity or muscle group that she favoured, indicating there was no specific injury or illness that troubled her. It had to be psychological trauma, but he refused to ask her about it, or enquire as to why she covered so much of her body. James feared he had crossed a line by peering at her things, an act he kicked himself for, and wouldn’t risk her wrath or disappointment again. 

Though their mornings were full, the afternoons and evenings were hard to manage. Without an official posting, duty or assignment, the two found themselves hopelessly unprepared for empty hours. Luckily, there were chores to keep them somewhat occupied.

Given that they were under such stringent house arrest, they weren’t allowed a chef or a cleaner. They made their own meals, picked up after themselves and washed their own dishes. They had divvied up these tasks between themselves, occasionally lending a hand when there was nothing better to do. It was terribly domestic and he knew they both felt awfully out of place doing menial chores together, embarrassed to share something so personal with a relative stranger. Still, James felt an odd thrill at watching her perform daily tasks. The legendary Commander Shepard approached such duties with absolutely no military precision whatsoever. It was strangely endearing to him that she paid no mind to how tidy a rack of towels should be or which shelf the milk lived on.

About three weeks into their stay, someone had a runner drop off paperwork for Shepard. It was well into the evening and they weren’t expecting anyone. James checked the security footage and clicked the safety off his pistol before unlocking the door. He took the file from the lad, who saluted sloppily and dashed off as fast as he had come. There was a _CONFIDENTIAL_ notice stamped on the cover of a thick, sealed manila folder. James frowned and locked the door behind him. “Where’s this from?” he asked, returning to the living area and passing the documents to Shepard. 

The commander was dressed for comfort, her hair piled on top of her head. She was reading a novel at the table, a cup of tea steaming gently nearby.  
“Ah, she _did_ get my message.”  
“Who?” James’ question went unanswered as Shepard put down her book and tore the seal on the folder. She rifled through dozens of loose pages, many of them amended by hand and some with photos attached. It occurred to James that she shouldn’t have been able to make any messages at all; her omni-tool’s signals had been disabled. “Hang on! What message?”  
“Hm? Oh.” She glanced up at him. “I asked for some help from a friend before I was arrested.”  
“Friend? What friend?”  
“Dr. Liara T’Soni.”  
“Wait. The asari from your old crew?”  
“Hm?” Shepard was distracted, focusing on the papers.  
“Commander, do I need to be worried about you doing something Anderson wouldn’t like?"  
  
“What?” Shepard looked up at him again and frowned, confused. “Oh. No. These aren’t Alliance files. I…” she exhaled suddenly and a weight seemed to settle on her shoulders. “James, the committee will expect me to explain myself. They’ll need a statement about my whereabouts over the last couple of years. I didn’t desert my post, but I know what it looks like.” She gestured simply. “Nobody really knows where I was except for several members of a terrorist organisation. The only real alternative is Liara. She might be ex-crew, but she’s a credible witness and she has proof. She’s managed to track down Cerberus files which should be enough to convince the brass of the truth.”

Shepard slid the folder over to him. The uppermost sheet of paper had a neatly scrawled note: ‘ _…testimony to corroborate body’s condition at time of Cerberus involvement._ ’ A paperclip secured a few old fashioned polaroids. James felt a wave of shock and revulsion as he flipped through the images. He was by no means disturbed by the sight of a corpse, but he knew instinctively that the bloated, disfigured body in the photos was the same woman sitting in front of him. _How?_ James wondered, staggered. _How did they bring her back from this?_

“There’s more. Much more.” Shepard lifted a data disk from the file. “I don’t know how Liara got her hands on this since the station was destroyed. Miranda — she was in charge — she documented my progress for two years in personal vid-journals. It’s all here, every shred of proof to show that I was…” Shepard trailed off. 

… _Dead._ Vega tossed the polaroids back onto the file, fingers burned by the stark and honest truth. A part of him had, like so many other people, assumed that there was something extraordinary or superhuman about Shepard which had ushered her back from the grave; that she was an indomitable force inexplicably capable of cheating death. The reality was confronting. There was nothing exceptional about her survival. Jane Shepard had been on an operating table for two years, a ruined mess of decaying flesh at the mercy of an organisation with seemingly limitless funds. His romanticised image of the commander, already somewhat broken down with the realities of the last few weeks, was now irrevocably changed. It was a privilege to be one of the few who understood who Shepard really was and what she had gone through, but also a burden to know that she had a fundamental frailty about her.

He whistled low, trying to convey that the polaroids were convincing rather than obscene.  
“I can’t believe that’s really you, Commander.”  
Shepard shied away from looking directly at the images as she scooped them back under the papers. “It’s not,” she said curtly, “not anymore.” She sipped quietly at her tea.

 


End file.
